Traditional style tattoo of a moustached man with red devil horns, green bow tie and laurel wreath, on the thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Horned gentleman portrait on a thigh

Traditional · Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A bust portrait of a man with slicked-back hair, a waxed moustache and red devil horns, wearing a dark jacket, green bow tie and red pocket square. A green laurel wreath frames the figure and a black ribbon sits along the bottom. Bold black outlines, flat fills and red shading on the cheeks give it a classic bold look, shown against the skin of the upper leg.

Traditional Thigh Devil Horn Man Portrait Moustache Laurel wreath Bow tie Ribbon

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had come in the night and sealed the lane, so when the gentleman in the good jacket came walking up from the road, he was the only thing moving between the barns. You watched him from the kitchen window while the kettle worked itself up to a rattle. He carried no case and wore no coat, only a green bow tie bright as a fresh leaf against all that grey, and the two little horns above his oiled hair caught the lamplight like something rubbed with brass.

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Your father had sold the top field in October and never said to whom. Now the man stood on the step, tipped his hat, and asked after the debt. You told him there was no debt. He smiled under his waxed moustache and drew from his breast pocket a ledger bound in black ribbon. There it was in your father's careful hand: one field, one ewe with a torn ear, and a promise pledged against a bad spring that had never been fulfilled.

You did not argue. You put the kettle on again, cut the fruit cake your mother had left in the tin, and sat him by the range. He ate slowly and praised the cake, and when the tea was cold he named his terms. He wanted nothing you had. He wanted only the first thing you would see in the morning, whatever it was.

At first light you went out into the yard expecting a crow on the gatepost. Instead the frost on the cobbles had settled into the shape of a laurel wreath, perfect and white, with a ribbon of ice trailing along its foot. The gate stood open onto a road already clear. Your father's ledger lay on the step, and on the last page, in red ink, someone had written your name.